


all this time (with your heart in mind)

by lismicro



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Friendship/Love, Post-Recall, Pre-Recall, Relationship(s), Team as Family, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-08-29 13:03:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8490835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lismicro/pseuds/lismicro
Summary: The timeline of Angela Ziegler, reborn.(Overwatch pre-and post-recall, love and loss free for the taking.)





	1. Chapter 1

They meet at the scene of the crime.

Walking in the Gibraltar night is dangerous business, even in the pre-dawn peace. It’s never been advisable to venture out alone. But she’s been in lab all day, and a month of heavy fighting takes its toll on a body, even a genetically-reinforced one. The thought of a breath of cool air is too tempting to pass up.

So she’s here, walking. Beating a nervous loop on a path that, in hindsight, is exposed from nearly every angle as she makes her way through the winding streets. The moon is hidden; the night obscures. 

On top of all that, Angela’s just teetering on the edge of exhaustion, so it’s almost a surprise when the first sharp _ping-ping_ s of gunfire crack open the silence and she _doesn’t_ drop dead on the spot.

Foolish. She knows better than this.

But fate has seen to give her a second chance, it seems, as Angela ducks into an alley and draws the pistol strapped to her thigh, pressing into the shadows as she tries to place the shooter.

To her left? No. From above.

Another few shots, and then a return _thump_ of something considerably larger than any rifle could produce. The clatter of feet gets louder and louder, and then heart-stoppingly close, but before Angela can make a run for it, they hurry past without a pause. Either this person is terrible at pursuit or she isn’t the intended target.

Yet.

When out of danger, Angela’s heart stops racing and her mind begins.

They chose an abandoned stretch of inhospitable coast for this base, all jagged cliffs and pounding waves along a coast littered with wrecked vessels. The town was abandoned after the War. There is no time to return, to warn the others. And her communicator is back at base.

There is no time to do anything but run, when a shrill scream pierces the night.

But Angela only checks her clip, before sliding carefully into the darkness and running, running to the source.

Once again, foolish. But she is a doctor, after all.

 

*

 

When Angela arrives, a bloody body lies on the street below, sporting the red-and-black bandana of a one of the smuggler gangs in the area. No one good, most likely. Angela’s breath catches. She looks up, from where he must have fallen, and even in the darkness she sees a similarly bloody suit of armor half-sitting, half-lying against the chimney.

…Wait.

Armor?

Angela makes her way up, and the bright-blue carbon fiber is somehow holding- beaten out of form in a dozen places yet still all-but-molded to the body that wore it. A feminine body, from the build and the strands of beaded hair that spill out where the neck plate has been split.

Angela doesn’t see any obvious way to get her out of it. Dents can be fixed; spine damage is harder.

A battered rocket launcher lies some feet away.

She reaches for it without knowing why- the weapon probably weighs more than she does, and it’s not like she knows how to operate a _rocket launcher_ \- but before she can touch it, a sudden gasp and jerk from the body beside her sprawls Angela backwards. The woman flails, struggling to roll over, seizes in place with a cry of pain.

Angela lunges for her arms.

“Stay still!”

The woman only fights harder, and Angela spits out a curse and pins her down with her whole weight. Armor plating digs painfully where their bodies press together. The splatter of blood against her cheek is nothing unfamiliar.

Soldiers.

“I’m not here to hurt you. Don’t move, you risk making your injuries worse.”

At the sound of her voice, the woman stills but still paws feebly at her cracked faceplate. A spiderweb of cracks makes it hard to see underneath, but she sees dark skin and the fog of breath disappearing and reappearing within.

“Work together, yes?”

Angela sets her fingers along the ridge, the woman tugs from the inside, and together they pry the helmet off.

_Oh._

She cannot believe her eyes.

The armor slips from her numb fingers and before Angela can stop herself, she blurts out- “Ana?”

 _Not-Ana_ ’s relieved sigh dissipates in a second, to be replaced by a look so stone as to be barely human. “Dr. Ziegler.”

Foolish.

Fareeha Amari is no longer the gangly young woman Angela knew, when they were all younger and kinder and the world was- not fixed, but certainly _better_. Gone is the ever-broken arm that chronicled Fareeha’s many attempts to reach the roof of every building they occupied, no matter how tall. Gone are the hollow cheeks that Ana lamented, wishing that Fareeha would just eat more, the scrawny ostrich that she was. Gone is the stricken look on her face, that terrible day, when Reinhart had told her and then took all the force of her fists to his chest. For hours.

Angela’s heart skips a beat.

“Fareeha Amari?”

Look at her. Do not look at her bruises.

Do not look for her mother.

“You remembered.”

“What-what are you _doing_ here?”

“I came looking for you. Overwatch, I mean.” Blood drips down Fareeha’s forehead, seeps from the cuts in her lip. “I don’t think I was supposed to get Winston’s call, but-“

As if it is that simple, to just answer and return. They sit there for a second, inside the silence, even as Angela hears the telltale drip-drip of engine oil and knows they need to leave, _now_. 

“You’re here because of the recall, then.”

“So are you, it seems. It's quite a coincidence to be meeting you like this.”

Angela Ziegler does not believe in luck.

 

*

 

The crime doesn’t occur at that moment, though. It happens, like most things, with a massive gorilla and the press of a button. Or maybe even earlier than that, when machines came to life and the world told Angela Ziegler that fifteen years of childhood were enough.

 

*

 

She is so angry she vibrates a little, off the ground. Blasted suit.

Still, it puts her eye-level with Winston, which is perfectly suited to her purposes.

“What were you _thinking_ , bringing Overwatch back?”

It’s infuriating that Winston just stands there, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the gaping lab coats, steadily refusing break eye contact. The hospital is chaotic (it always is) and her time is short (there’s never enough). So she has to pack all of her fury into tight, easily deployed packages, which come in the form of Angela’s finger jabbing, hard, into his chest.

It does not deter him.

“Dr. Ziegler, the world needs Overwatch more than it needs blind optimism. To be a part of Overwatch has never been a singular decision, and we cannot allow Talon to wreak havoc without a fight.”

“PETRAS was supposed to fix that.”

“PETRAS was a mistake.”

“ _Verdammt_ \- have you learned nothing? By sending the call you have jeopardized any number of former agents, half of whom are hunted or in hiding- and I don’t believe for one second that Lena is not joining purely because you asked her to.”

Lena, she is informed, was the one who flew him here.  

“You have influence, Winston, whether you like it or not, and I will not watch all of our former teammates walk the same path that led Overwatch to ruin.”

She never used to be so cruel. A lot changes over years of silence, apparently.

“Athena has assured me the broadcast was secure. And it’s their choice to re-join or not- a choice that I am asking you to make.”

Winston is not even in armor but still he looks impenetrable, glasses tilted down and knuckles calmly braced against the hospital linoleum. There is nothing but determination to be seen in his gaze, which both inspires and terrifies Angela.

There is a hospital that needs her attention, but she could hardly concentrate now.

“I will not make that choice, and damn you for even coming here. You could be arrested at any moment now.”

“There is no one in the world more qualified than you, Angela. Please, my friend.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me.”

He has to understand this, understand why some soldier will arrive in her ward, at times, and her aides will take the helmet off and suddenly Gabriel or Jack or Ana is the one strapped down for their own protection as they scream and scream in pain. Understand why, then, Angela locks herself in her lab and works until she collapses.

Understand that Overwatch never really ended, for any of them. Some burdens are not easily shed.

“I’ll beg if you want.”

But he doesn’t, and each second they stand glaring at each other it becomes increasingly clear that he will do this whether he gets her approval or not.

“Overwatch was shut down for a reason.” She turns her back, finally. “Maybe it should stay that way.”

 

 *

 

Winston doesn’t leave. He and Lena stick around, making themselves both scarce and useful. Angela still remembers the morning when she wakes to find yet another head of state assassinated and the calling card of Talon fixed all over the crime scene. Lena is already in her living room when she stumbles in, drinking a cup of hot tea, spilling it all over the saucer as her hands tremble.

That’s pretty much all it takes.

Foolish.

 

*

 

And now?

They fly to Gibraltar, first, where Jack Morrison (Soldier:76, she needs to remind herself. She’s not supposed to linger on the past anymore) greets them and suits them up within the same hour. It’s obvious that things have changed.

Exhibit A: Secrecy is not a priority anymore; it is survival.

Back before PETRAS, Overwatch went through a gigawatt of power a day; a hell of a homing beacon to anyone with a working set of eyeballs, but that didn’t matter when the weapons of entire nations were at their disposal.

In this day and age, when more than one agent lands, mortally wounded, on her table, Angela makes life-or-death decisions while yelling down the hallway for everyone to turn their _fucking_ lights off.

The world is angrier, underground.

She liked to remember that they were more than this, some days when Winston comes back roaring in pleasure over some new find or Lena pops into her lab with only a bruise or two after a long day in the field.  Or maybe it’s all a pleasant delusion.

They'll find out soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sticking to the timeline as much as possible. Marked as complete for now but there will be multiple chapters, just not sticking to a schedule ATM. Thank you for reading, please let me know if you enjoyed.


	2. Chapter 2

There’s a type of disassociation that comes with trauma. Especially at a young and formative age, when things go to hell around her, it’s easier to simply let go of the memories rather than jump off the inescapable cliff that follows. It’s widely accepted in the literature that the features of trauma, especially in children, manifest in long-term and mysterious ways.

Thirty-seven years looks good on her, but it lingers. The texture of concrete dust still sends her into shivers. She sometimes thinks that there’s less room in a room than there actually is.  And blood never seems stickier than when she’s wiping it off her own hands.

Angela is fifteen and her world has fallen apart thanks to a rogue mortar and a message mere hours too late.  Choosing a university turns into planning two funerals, and when they show up at her door and insist that she _needs a guardian, dear, you’re far too young to be by yourself_ , Angela Ziegler slams the door in their faces and packs her bags.

 

*

 

She spends a few years in medical school, and it is the highlight of her life. Eighteen-year old Angela barely sleeps, graduates with the highest GPA in the school’s history, and (secretly) falls head over heels for the beautiful trauma surgeon who asks her out in the hospital elevator after they’ve saved an entire firefighter squad from certain death. That relationship doesn’t work out, but it does Angela a spot at the Swiss Medical Institute with a newly-minted doctor’s license and a hell of a lot to prove. Being the youngest on a team that has easily two decades on her in experience does tend to put a chip on one’s shoulder.

But it’s easy to do what comes naturally.

Saving people.

There is a ceremony in her honor from the Swiss Medical Institute when the nanobot discovery is first made, when the combination of biomedical engineering, chemistry, and a shit ton of luck finally pulls through; the breakthrough of the century; microscopic organic metal, manifested in beam as flexible as light itself. Self-healing and self-adapting to fix what is broken without any human input at all. They call her a genius, a lifesaver, an angel—and she soaks it up, because they’re _right_.

Her own body becomes the new frontier. In the early years she plays hard and loose with the science, knowing she has little time before the regulatory agencies get over themselves and start breathing down her neck, but what are medical ethics when the gates of death seem to be at the brink of being thrown open?

One night, Angela slices her palm open and watches, breathless, as the skin heals without a trace.

Foolish.

 

*

 

Twenty-four comes, and the world is her oyster.

Then Overwatch calls.

They have promised her everything- a complete lab, staff, more money than God - and she agrees on the spot, buzzes with excitement the entire plane ride to the Horn of Africa. She gets everything she’s ever been promised and more in that first week, meeting the most amazing and famous war heroes in this generation. But the knowledge of what she’s developing healing tech _for_ is never far from mind.

The fighting happens in the periphery, mostly. Lots of news headlines and communications from Winston or Jack, letting her know to hurry to prep the exam rooms for incoming casualties. So far, nothing particularly serious has come her way. But that will change, she knows, she _dreads_.

But it was during one of her first training sessions that Gabriel comes up to her and told her to “get her ass” down to the gym.

She doesn’t know what she was expecting. Sprints? A turn on the rowing machine? Admittedly, of all the places on base, she spends the least amount of time in the gym. And even then it’s usually to scold Reinhardt into putting less weight on the bar.

No, when she enters, team sniper Ana Amari is there with Gabriel. Both of them are wearing boxing gloves, and Ana has a third pair slung across her shoulder.

“No.” she says, automatically. No, she did not live through the first Omnic Crisis to die like this. “No.”

“Angela.”

 “No, no- I am not going to punch anything, and especially not you-“

“Well, no, you won’t.” Ana says. “You’re never going to be able to lay a finger on me.”

“I’ve treated you for concussion five times.” Angela retorts. “One of those times you decided to shoot yourself with a nanoboost and have a wrestling competition with Reinhardt. I don’t trust you with _anything_.”

It’s almost laughable how much Overwatch has warped her sense of propriety. In any other setting, Ana is downright motherly, taking special care of the younger agents that Overwatch attracts. In the field, Mercy defers to her completely, as befitting a military genius of her caliber. But now she’s just thinking of how a new batch of nanobots has just been completed in the lab, and she really doesn’t want to be the first person they’ll have to be tested on.

This does not deter Ana.

“If you ever want to get back to your lab, get your hands up.”

“Torbjorn doesn’t have to do this!”

“Torbjorn has passed his physical for ten consecutive years. You, doctor, haven’t even taken it once.”

“I’ve been…busy.” She admits, rubbing the back of her neck. Overwatch requires all agents to meet a bare minimum of physical fitness, but so long as Angela can run at a respectable pace and shoot a paper target from a certain number of yards, she’s been allowed to skip it. Her suit is equipped with wings, for heaven’s sake. If they’re counting on Mercy to wrestle a Talon agent to the ground, they’ve already lost.

“Don’t make me pull rank on you, soldier.” Gabriel glares when she hesitates. Ana tosses her the gloves and drops back into a resting stance, ready. “Suit up.”

 

*

 

“Ow.”

“Try again!”

_Whump!_

“….Ow.”

These people are decades older than she is. But to borrow a term from Jesse McCree, at Overwatch, youthful vitality doesn’t mean _shit_.

The last time she lands flat on her back on the mattress, the ceiling lights spinning. She could just stay down here, on the ground, where there are no insane mercenaries or smug snipers to take advantage of her. The mat is cool and soft and-

“Get up. Again.”

Gabriel is untouched. Ana is out of breath, but otherwise taking full advantage of Angela’s prone state to smirk and nudge her triumphantly in the ribs. This is completely unfair—they are seasoned soldiers, and Angela hasn’t run a mile in months-

“The key is not to hesitate. First short, last shot. If you have a chance, take it.”

She is pulled to her feet.

It takes another half hour and a lucky uppercut to take him down, and even before he loses his balance he throws one arm across her waist and brings the two of them into an ungraceful tumble to the mat. But in a moment of terrified clarity she socks him in the gut, feeling the hard muscle give only slightly and the wind knocked out of Gabriel’s lungs, and squirms out of his grip, pressing a knee to his windpipe with a quiet cry to _push harder, harder._

For a second, the world stands still. She sucks in a breath, heartbeat hammering against her ribs. Then Gabriel bucks upwards, too fast to prepare or block or avoid, and flips her right back to her designated place: back flat on the floor and sweat dripping into her eyes.

He cocks his head to one side, as if surveying the damage, then hops off her body. One strong hand hauls her upright, dazed.

“Good. We’re done for today.”

Ana—she’s still here?—chuckles.

“Reminds me of when Fareeha used to come box with you, Gabriel. No substitute for experience.”

She drapes a clean towel over Angela’s shoulders, says something about finding an ice pack, and leaves.

Meanwhile, Gabriel walks to the bench and unwraps his hands, and Angela tries very, very hard not to whimper when he motions her over, claps her on the shoulder with as much gentleness as a bear. Her balance teeters.

“Practice can only get you so far. If you ever have to use this shit in real life- well, it wouldn’t hurt to bulk up a little.”

He stalks away, and Angela closes her eyes and waits for the room to stop spinning.

 

*

 

On Christmas that year, Angela has been in a lab all day, in some random corner of the world, and only ventures out when Lena raps on her door to remind her of the party they’ve cobbled together for the holiday. Later that night, drunk on mulled wine and happiness, Angela stumbles back to her door and finds bottle of fine whiskey outside her door with a note from “Captain Amari and Commander Morrison”. They wish her a Merry Christmas, congratulate her on being such an asset to Overwatch. Even in writing, Jack’s writing manages to be gruff.

When Jesse runs to her room in indignation, holding a pair of honest-to-goodness _spurs_ from Gabriel, Angela promptly sprays him with alcohol in laughter.

 

*

 

Those are good times.

The schedule varies, but some things remain constant.

Sunrise. She walks from the dormitories to the kitchen in her stocking feet, yawning wide and groping around for the coffee pot and a clean mug. Doctors and soldiers are two types of people who wake up at the arse-crack of dawn, as Lena would say, so she is by no means alone—Winston is usually up, eating whatever fruit they have on hand, tipping his glasses to her in lieu of a verbal greeting. Jack has usually already eaten and is sequestered inside his office, where only Angela has the access code to during emergencies.

(She’ll get someone to make up a tray to send to him, midafternoon. He forgets to eat sometimes.)

Gabriel and Ana, thick as thieves, train together in the mornings, and are usually accompanied by Jesse and whatever hero-worshipping new agents decide to ride the “pain train”, as he so lovingly calls it. Their arrival usually heralds the rest of the squad’s imminent appearance, filing into the mess to be served breakfast and given the day’s dossiers, breaking into groups to run missions or tinker with their equipment or debrief with Jack over what they’ll do next.  And Angela retreats to her lab, always on call, ready whenever they need her.

This is all their lives. These are their lofty dreams of justice and compassion and peace, and nothing can stand in their way.

 

*

 

In opposition, the bad dreams break through once in a while. The worse of them: Overwatch has been whittled down bit by bit, the steady beat of an ocean wearing down a cliff. She’s atop a mountain of bodies and the queen of them all. Their faces twist in surprise, in pain, as Talon strikes them down before Angela can even understand what’s happening. In those dreams, she’s always a different age, but always wringing her useless hands together as if that will bring anyone back.

In the ether, the world burns.

 

*

Angela hits the alarm button as soon as she half-drags, half-supports the two of them all the way back to base. Fareeha groans low in her ear, but keeps upright as Angela awkwardly props her against the nearest table, that bright blue armor smearing blood all over the plastic surface.

“I’m going to need to get someone else to carry you to the infirmary. We can’t risk taking off your armor now, there’s a good chance we’ll worsen your injuries that way, and I can’t do it on my own.”

Her charge grips the edge of the table, panting, and does not answer.

“Just hold on. Winston- you remember Winston?—will be here shortly to assist.”

Fareeha chuckles weakly.  “He’s not exactly easy to forget.”

Angela smiles despite herself. “On that, you would be correct. Though I think he’s a little put out by that fact sometimes.”

Fareeha looks, squints through the dim night lighting to see the cramped remnants of the Gibraltar base, faded walls and caved-in ceilings, and an abrupt sea-deep sadness lands like a sucker punch to Angela’s chest, sharp cracks of regret piercing what she’d through was a long-healed wound.

Fareeha was still very young when Gibraltar as at its prime, and after leaving to join the Egyptian military that same pristine image was likely the one that she remembered. After Ana’s death, she’d had little reason to return, and certainly not to this- this place that is at once the end of Overwatch and it’s new, tiny beginnings. Not a very illustrious start.

Angela clears her throat.

“We’ve been preparing for the other agents’ arrival. You’re one of the first, but Lena and Jack Morrison are already here. I’ll inform them of your arrival in the morning.”

“Commander Morrison, ha.” Fareeha smiles genuinely for the first time, and stops her hard stare at the faded Overwatch symbol carved into the wall. “I remember when I would ride on his shoulders as a child, when I would visit you all at base. My mother never really wanted me involved in Overwatch business, but when I needed a place to be, Uncle Morrison and Uncle Reyes were always there to entertain me.” Her voice turns wistful, deep from somewhere low in her chest as Fareeha sighs, and suddenly Angela is acutely aware of how much they have all changed from the people they were. Or the people she remembers.

And oh, she looks so much like Ana.

The sadness returns.

“I’m happy that you still think on those times. It would do us all good to remember them a little more often.”

Fareeha turns to her, and the dark hazel of her eyes makes Angela falter, even in lowlight. Just a little.

“I’m glad you’re here as well, Doctor Ziegler. I know of your skills as a doctor, and I’ve no doubt Overwatch will need you if we’re to succeed. I hope you know how much I-ahh!”

She hisses in pain and Angela snaps to attention, pressing a palm to the biggest wound in Fareeha’s side, sickly warm and pulsing underneath the skintight flight suit. Not good.

“The bleeding still hasn’t stopped—where on earth is Winston?”

As if on cue, the thud-thud of a half-ton gorilla rappelling down the stairs alerts them to his presence, and the door is nearly swung off its hinges when he bursts through.

“Angela!”

Both of them wince—it must be at least four in the morning, as Winston’s voice booms throughout the room—and Angela quickly waves him over.

“I’m here! No need to panic, I’m fine, but a new agent has arrived, and we need to get her into treatment immediately.”

“New agent? No one sent any forward communication to me about it.” Winston approaches, cautious and with Tesla canon in hand. He runs a hand through the fur sticking straight up on top of his head, and adjusts his glasses. “Is that-“

Before Angela can stop her, Fareeha straightens her back and salutes, an effect almost comical given that she’s still half-bent over the table with blood dripping from a dozen places through the chinks of her armor.

“I’m Fareeha Amari. It’s good to see you again.”

As Winston’s face lights up, Angela turns towards the door to the infirmary, and begins to run through her equipment list.  

It’s time to get to work.


	3. Chapter 3

“Pharah” begins her Overwatch career by getting herself shot out of the sky.

They are tasked with retrieving highly sensitive data from an old base that never received the proper reconnaissance treatment following the shutdown (read: destruction). But Talon had gotten there first, holing up in two adjacent buildings designed specifically to withstand siege, and Jack is practically foaming at the mouth as they all gather in the hangar to suit up and fly out.

Their numbers have been bolstered by the addition of Reinhardt and Torbjörn, both called out of a retirement that was never wanted, but it’s still no easy task reaching the battlefield itself. Protected by remnants of buildings and concrete walls, they’re finally told to hold at the junction while Jack leads a second assault team around the flank.

A simple enough plan that _doesn’t_ involve their main source of covering fire getting a bullet to the arm. 

“Medic!” Lena yelps through the comm, popping through a window and mowing down the enemy sniper before he can reload. Angela checks her position and flexes her wings to life, glides to where Fareeha is spiraling down to earth.

Her Cadeceous staff hums in her hands, furiously repairing what is broken and punctured and bleeding, before the two of them tumble gracelessly down.

It is only instinct that lets Angela roll aside before Fareeha lands with a thump where Angela was crouched a moment before. Bullets whiz by overhead, close enough to catch if she just reaches out. Lena’s slightly manic giggle erupts in a crackle of static in her ear.

“Got ‘im! Securing the server room!”

Angela soaks the wound in a flood of nanobots. No good- the bullet’s embedded itself close to the bone, stitching up the flesh around it will only cause problems in the long run. She needs evacuation. Fareeha’s eyes flutter and she groans.

“Pharah?”

“Not again.” Fareeha manages to mumble, before the sedative kicks in properly and her head lolls back, out cold.

_Oh, for crying out-_

“Mercy?” Jack growls into her ear. “We’re pushing ahead, we’ll try to keep them from seeing you. Reinhardt can cover us for now- you’re clear to get her back to transport.”

“Understood. Winston?”

“Clear, I’ll be back as soon as I can!”

With the help of Winston’s jump jets, Fareeha Amari is prepped like so much cargo and sent back to the dropship. Angela holds her breath as she watches them go, a tiny speck leaping into the distance.

 

 *

 

They win.

Well, winning is relative, but they’ve recaptured the old base and incapacitated any survivors before setting the charges for the last demolition. Talon won’t be reclaiming any territory today.

When Athena directs the dropship back down for extraction they have been no further serious injuries, and after tending to her lone patient Angela settles next to Jack with a sigh of relief.

He gives her a rare grunt of acknowledgment.

“Is Fareeha alright?”

“She’ll be fine.” Angela murmurs, running a hand through her hair. What she wouldn’t give for a proper soak in the bath right about now. “The bullet never hit anything more vital than muscle. She will have a very sore arm for the next few weeks, but otherwise, there is no reason to worry.”

Jack sighs, low, and through the visor and apparatus that always obscures his face, Angela detects a similar relief.

“Thank you.” Around them, in the dim light, the sounds of celebration have already started—murmured chuckling from where Lena and Reinhardt are catching up, sharp barks of laughter when Winston finally leaves his computer screens to join them. Angela used to chastise all the agents under her care to rest quietly after as much heart-stopping exertion as they experience each day, but can’t bring herself to ruin their fun.

Jack shifts in his seat and she knows he’s looking at them too. His visor still hasn’t come off.

“You know, I met Ana for the first time at that base. The one we just—blew up.” His breathing is labored. “She liked to take her tea out to the balcony and yell down on anyone in the training yard below. Most glorious view of the Andes from up there, but somehow we were more interesting to her.”

“I remember that.” Angela shakes her head, amused. “It seemed like we got a new squadron of soldiers come in every week, excited to meet the _Falcon of Egypt_ , only to be shot with training pellets by her from above.”

He chuckles.

“Hmmm. Reinhardt’s harebrained idea, if I remember correctly.”

Angela hesitates. It wouldn’t do any good to lie to him.

“I seem to recall that it was Gabriel’s.”

Jack tenses up automatically, a reaction that Angela’s observed a dozen times in the short period they’ve been together post-recall. It’s not just to the name. He rubs his forehead with two fingers, tracing absentmindedly along the scars at his temples, and it’s impossible to tell the expression on his face.

“Right.”

He doesn’t sound sad—not really. Just tired.

Angela wants to say that it’s alright, that they’re entitled to a little forgetfulness now, but instead she leans her head back on the metal wall of the dropship and closes her eyes. A gentle thump beside her indicates that Jack has done the same, and then they talk no further.

 

*

 

Pharah wakes up a few hours after they all get back to base, laid out on one of the cots in the medical wing. Upon opening her eyes, she flushes such a brilliant, furious red that Angela would be inclined to laugh if she wasn’t physically wrestling the woman back down to the bed.

Someday, Angela will learn to interact with her in a way that doesn’t involve serious physical injury.

“Lie down, or by God I will sedate you. Again.”

By the sound of it, each word Fareeha says is coming through gritted teeth.

“What happened? Did everyone make it out okay? Where’s my Raptora—“

Count on an Amari to worry about a) other people, and b) her blasted suit before concerning herself with her own condition, Angela thinks ruefully, bringing Fareeha’s patient chart up on her screens.

The base is humming with activity even now, with most agents asleep or having an impromptu meal, preparing for the new influx of agents arriving soon. Within the next few days, they’re expecting any number of new and old agents to arrive- and Angela wants to be ready for all of them.

Truth be told, Fareeha’s just taking up a bed. But it’s a little too satisfying to make her squirm a little—God knows she’ll get fewer and fewer chances to do so.

Besides. Maybe it’ll keep Fareeha a little more cautious in the future.

Though that’s doubtful.

“Winston and Torbjörn have your equipment and are repairing it as we speak. And yes, we were victorious in today’s engagement. No one else was hurt.”

Fareeha blinks hard, and turns away from Angela when she comes over to check the compress on her arm. The wound has closed nicely, and her heartbeat thrums strong where Angela holds her, but there’s no mistaking how tense Fareeha suddenly becomes at the touch.

“Except me.”

Angela says nothing. Fareeha doesn’t say anything either, for a few minutes, until the wound is rewrapped and they are no longer sharing space.

“When can I be discharged?”

“Twenty-four hours.” Angela says, turning away from her to grab her datapad. And true to form, Fareeha nearly deafens her with a cry of protest.

“An entire day!?”

_Here it comes._

“If it hasn’t been two weeks since your wound at Gibraltar, I would make it thirty-six. You need rest, Fareeha—nanobots don’t work instantly, or on a body that isn’t ready to receive them.”

“I’m fine. You saw it yourself- my arm is alright, it can heal itself without being stuck in a hospital bed—“

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Doctor Ziegler!”

Even turned around, she can feel Fareeha’s indignant stare burning through the back of her neck. It’s good that she’s used to unruly patients by now, because it takes no effort at all to turn back around and fix the woman with a glare of her own.

“You were shot out of the sky, do you understand? Give me one good reason why you cannot sit still for a single day to let your body heal itself.”  

“I need to run maintenance on my suit, only I know how to do it properly. And I need to report to Commander Morrison and apologi—file my paperwork for today.” Fareeha fires back. Angela can’t help but be drawn to the dark tattoo ink under her eye, so familiar and so alien a the same time. Fareeha doesn’t seem to notice.

“I don’t want anything else to be delayed on my behalf. And truly, Doctor, I am fine.”

She makes another move to get out of the bed, and Angela, distracted, doesn’t grab her in time to stop her. Out of propriety, or maybe just stubbornness, Fareeha still waits there by the doorway, fingers impatiently tapping the handle.

That’s strangely charming of her, Angela thinks absentmindedly. To wait for permission to flee.

“Fine. But stay away from any activity on that arm, and tonight you come to my office to get another dose of medication. Don’t make me chase after you.”

Fareeha already has her jacket in hand and is out the door before she’s finished speaking, and Angela rolls her eyes in her empty clinic.

Soldiers.

 

*

 

The recruiting process for Overwatch used to be a stately affair. Jack and Gabriel met every month to discuss potential candidates, often through recommendations of other Overwatch members. There would be an interview, a field test, a physical and mental checkup. Then three months spent with a deployed Overwatch team, and if they were still alive and interested after all that, there was a quiet little ceremony, Jack or Ana or Gabe presiding, to welcome the new member to Overwatch proper. By then it was just a formality—more of a homecoming than an induction.

Pre-recall, Angela was deployed all over the world, wherever she was needed most. But she’d formed tighter bonds with some people than others, by virtue of shared experience or interests or just because she’s pulled a few too many bullets out of sensitive areas to worry about awkward first encounters.

(Reinhardt is an excellent example.)

(So is Genji.)

And now everyone’s coming home.

Winston’s had his list of confirmed agents for a while now, post-recall, has made a dozen reminders and schedules for all of them as they begin anew at Gibraltar. She hasn’t been able to look at first, afraid to see who had ignored the call, and who had answered it. Who was still in the process of being convinced. Who had retired for good, refused in disgust, or never responded because—

(Gabriel.)

(Ana.)

As if she needed a reminder.

Jack doesn’t speak about Gabe, nor Fareeha about Ana. It’s a feature unique to all of them, it seems, burying the past, something that years and years of silence that seeps into one’s worldview like wet cement into a foundation, there for good.

Fine by Angela. She has her hands full just dealing with the present.

What was that saying Lena had, about the world needing more heroes?

She looks at Winston’s list eventually, in preparation for their various medical needs, and her heart leaps in her chest as she scrolls and plans, thoughts racing. Aleks and Mei flying in from Russia. Genji dragging along his protesting brother and….a monk? Satya arriving in the dead of night, doubtlessly flawless even at 4 a.m.

She will not let any of them come to harm, not this time. She will be ready. 

 

*

 

 “So, all I’m saying is, Overwatch could do with a major rebranding. I mean, if we really are breaking the law by being here—“

“Which we are.” Winston huffs, mumbling something under his breath about “bureaucracy” and “bananas”. Angela pats him soothingly on the shoulder.

“—then we could use a complete public relations makeover! You know, we should start from the bottom—a few heroic rescues here and there, liberate funds from a few banks, the next time the United Nations comes to town. If the people want us back, they’ll have no choice but to sanction Overwatch again. Hey Lúcio, Dew me!”

At times like these Angela forgets that Hana Song is a very experienced and battle-hardened mech pilot with every medal for valor on her spotless service record, especially when she pushes her mug across the kitchen table for her third refill of some horrific soda-energy drink-green tea hybrid that Angela refuses to know the exact ingredients for.

That is a downright _unnatural_ shade of pink.

Not that her new companion, a young man by the name of Lúcio Correia dos Santos, is helping matters. By all accounts they’ve known each other a grand total of three hours and already they’re joined at the hip. Angela’s not seen him take off his skates or earphones all morning.

Lúcio nods his head to some unheard beat, smiling when Hana begins to drum on the table in tandem. “I’m cool with that. I know the folks down in Rio still see you guys as heroes, from the posters and the old stories they tell. If you wanted their support you’ve got it.”

Winston looks intrigued.

“We don’t have the strongest South American presence. Perhaps if we began reaching out—“

“Perfect! You could come be a guest on my stream if you wanted. Though I might have trouble getting all of you in frame—“

“Ahem!”

Jack looks sternly at all of them from his position at the head of the table. Angela hides her smile behind the rim of her tea mug.

“Enough, all of you. As much as I enjoy hearing all your crazy ideas, we’re all busy people and there’s an express purpose to this meeting. Does everyone at this table know each other?”

Hana looks at Lúcio, who beams at Angela and Winston in turn.

“Yep!”

“Yes, I believe so.”

Jack nods.

“Good. Now, we’ve got medical enhancements and defensive maneuvers down. You’re all in the system and I expect you both to report to Athena by the end of today to receive room assignments and pay arrangements. So the only thing left is whether either of you would need any enhancements on your equipment. I know you’ve been in combat before, but you’re likely unused to the kind of combat we might run into.”

Lúcio nods in Angela’s direction.

They’ve spoken already about how to amplify Lúcio’s speaker-weapon-thing into something better suited for a strike team than a support for freedom fighters. It’s such a strange concept, but brilliant, turning a _subwoofer_ into a portable means of delivery, Angela thinks.

It’s enough to make even her feel…not old, but certainly a little cramped for style.

Maybe she’ll get Torbjörn’s turret to shoot little darts filled with nanobots.

As soon as she thinks it, Angela shivers.

Or maybe she just needs a nap.

Meanwhile, Hana nearly sprays all of them with soda in her eagerness. “Lasers! No, wait—a plasma cannon like they give out on Russian tanks! Can you imagine—half a ton of _awesomeness_ with 20 cm plasma orbs shooting out both of my guns. That would be sweeeet.”

 “I don’t think the Korean government would be happy about that.”

“Pshhh. The Korean government can mind its own business.” Hana flips her hair over her shoulder. “They’ve got the funds, but what good is it doing sitting in a bank? Which brings me back to my first point, about relieving them of some of that cash—“

One can almost hear Jack’s fingers drumming a hole through the table.

Oh, they will both do just fine.

Angela feels her eyes drooping then—she still hasn’t gotten much sleep after their early adventures, and the excitement of the day has already begun to wear on her a little. Best catch some sleep while she can.

Probably for the best. As she wipes the drowsiness away, Hana has finally managed to wrest control of the toxic soda mixture from Lúcio’s hands, and is now chugging the stuff straight from the bottle.

Angela will have to have some words with her about that.

“Well, I will say my goodbyes and return to my lab. Rest, then lots of work to do.” She chuckles and gets up to deposit her cup in the dishwasher. “Come find me if either of you need anything. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

She leaves to a chorus of thank-yous, smiling when she hears Winston’s voice, asking for a sip.

 

*

 

As she walks back to her lab, Angela hears a soft brush of footsteps moving quickly down the hall. But when she rounds the corner, there is no one in sight.

 

*

 

In hindsight, napping at 9 p.m. after an exhausting day, with no alarm set,  is not the best idea she’s had.

Angela is no stranger to odd hours, and when she awakes suddenly, disoriented, the base is dark and the clock reads nearly 3 a.m.

“ _Scheiße_.” , she mutters, hauling herself out of bed and to the bathroom to splash some water on her face. She still needs to close up the lab for the night, but at this rate, she may just choose to work through it.

So much for healthy habits.

The hospital wing is deserted when Angela approaches, save for a note taped to the door.

_Came back for my appointment, but the lab was empty. Winston locked it for you. -F. Amari_

Ah, right. She’d told Fareeha to return for a checkup.

She’s just about to unlock her lab once again, resigned to a night of steady work, when she hears a commotion from the common area and sees the light suddenly flare to life down the hall. It’s followed very quickly by a loud (and familiar) Arabic curse.

It seems she’s not the only one awake at this hour, speak of the devil.

Except not the devil at all—Fareeha glances sharply up  when Angela raps softly on the door, but quickly relaxes when she sees who it is. Fareeha even smiles ruefully, her arm still in a protective bandage, holding out a spare mug of hot chamomile as Angela joins her at the counter. Dark eyes rove restlessly over the chairs and couch and kettle on the stove, over Angela herself at moments, seemingly unable to focus on anything. Not a good sign, especially including the bags under Fareeha’s eyes.

 “Doctor Ziegler. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“Not at all. I slept early and just woke up to close the lab.”

Angela accepts the drink, takes a deep breath in the steam rising from the cup.

“Not to sound ungrateful, but why are you making tea? In the dark?”

“Couldn’t sleep. I suppose I can thank _this_ for that.” Fareeha says, flapping her wrapped arm in Angela’s direction. It’s about the hour where everything seems a little funnier than it should, and Angela smiles at Fareeha’s frown. “I think I was out all morning.”

“Well, since we’re both up, would you come back to the lab for that checkup? Last time I’ll need to look at it, I promise.”

Fareeha nods, wiping her hands and taking the kettle off the stove. So Angela leads her back to her lab, flicking on the nighttime lights and motioning towards one of the beds. 

 “Sit.”

Fareeha sits.

Angela draws her stool close to Fareeha, takes her pulse and checks the wound again. As she applies one last nanobot injection to the site, her patient gives an audible hum of thanks as they both watch the skin turn a visibly healthier shade of pink. It never gets any less miraculous to Angela, watching it happen.

“There. All done.”

“Thank you. I truly appreciate it, and I—I apologize for snapping at you earlier today.”

Angela laughs.

“Believe me, I have heard much worse in this room.” _From your mother, no less_ , she doesn’t say. “I understand wanting to get back to your teammates as soon as possible. Just—try not to aggravate any injuries you have by being reckless. For my sake.”

She means as a doctor, as the guardian of their health and the person who’ll have to patch her up in the field, but it comes out a little too loud in the silence—and it’s her turn to blush in embarrassment, flushing even as she scoots backwards to put some space between them. Angela turns around, reaching for the counter.

“Well, that should be everything—“

“I walked by the conference room today.” Fareeha suddenly blurts out. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, it just…happened.”

So that’s what the noise was. Angela turns back, raises an eyebrow.

“I didn’t know that Overwatch recruited….agents so young.”

Ah.

“Hana Song is the most decorated pilot in the MEKA program and Lucio has made quite a name for himself in Brazil, fighting against Vishkar. Neither have been deployed with us before, but they’re more than qualified to be here. Besides, Lena and Winston are barely many years past them.”

“I didn’t mean—I just—“ Fareeha practically vibrates in silent frustration. “I remember being that old. Wanting to join Overwatch. But I was never allowed, and then my mother—“

Angela freezes.

Somehow, she never imagined this conversation happening like this. Not this soon.

Not when they’re not even fully Overwatch yet.

“I was not in the military then, but it’s another reminder of how bad this war has become. We’re practically recruiting teenagers now, the thought is just ….a little unsettling.”

Angela breathes a sigh of relief—not about Ana, then. But there’s still something deep and haunting about Fareeha’s eyes in this moment, and suddenly Angela wonders how much Fareeha has seen since they’d last met, how deeply this line of thought runs straight to her conscience.  

This, Angela can understand. This, she knows intimately.

She can fix this.

“I understand your reservations. But I would not have agreed to join up again if I did not believe that we could keep everyone safe and still accomplish our goals.”

“Our goals being…what? The end of Talon? The end of the crisis? We could be old before that’s ever fixed.”

“The goal of us staying alive, day to day. Keep fighting good fights. Besides, then it’s up to us to be the role models, yes? Teach them to work together, stay alive.”

There goes Fareeha’s arm-flap again.

“Getting shot down minutes into the mission isn’t exactly being a good role model.”

“To be fair, your role did put you in a vulnerable position.”

Fareeha snorts.

“Or just a sitting duck. At Helix—“

“But this is not Helix.” Angela says, handing her a tube of ointment. Fareeha takes it from her, but makes no move to set it down, instead turning her full attention to Angela for the first time that day, with some unreadable look in her eyes.

Discomfited, Angela continues. She’s said too much already.

“And for that matter, this is not the Egyptian military either. There is no—no _threshold_ of heroism that you’re expected to achieve. No one thinks any less of you after today, despite what you may think.”

Fareeha frowns. “I should have contributed more. That’s the reason I’m here.”

Angela almost laughs. Almost. “We’re all too glad that you’re still alive to collect on that debt.”

Fareeha opens her mouth and closes it immediately, and something—Angela knows not what—seems to settle within her, something that was previously out of sorts. As easy as the flip of a switch.

If all hurts could be so easy to ease.  

Fareeha seems to be mulling over her words, but with nothing left to do on her arm, Angela allows her to stand and reach for the door for the second time that day.

“I will think about what you’ve said. Thank you for the help, Doctor Ziegler. I appreciate it.”

Angela waves her thanks away, leaning against the counter.

“Angela, please.”

She still catches the tail end of a dry smile, peeking through the soft ink-black of Fareeha’s hair as she pulls the door open.

“Angela then. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

She watches Fareeha go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late chapter, but double the words (serves me right for starting a fic right before finals). I’m experimenting with styles a bit moving into present-day Overwatch. Thanks very much for sticking with me on this, and please let me know your thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

“Are you sure you wish to come? Not that I wouldn’t love to see you two, but if the situation does not allow it…”

Zarya’s face is grainy on the holo, but her hair is still shockingly pink where it pokes out under her heavy wool cap. It’s just about noon in Russia and already, Angela hears the telltale sounds of the camp in the background, bright sun shining through the bunkhouse window and washing out her friend’s pixelated face.

“I will not pretend that we aren’t stretched thin right now, but what good are we doing, just sitting here? Guns need calibrating twice a week. We do rounds six times a day, and scouting takes up the rest of our time. And for what? Ice, ice, and more ice. Not even omnics can withstand a Siberian winter.”

“There is no fighting, then.”

“None here. But you should see the actual front lines.” Zarya gives a grim bark of laughter. “One of the forward garrisons ran low on ammunition last week after an assault by the omnic forces. You know what they’re used instead? Hot water cannons. Froze all the machines like leaves in winter, easy to smash. More effective than anything we’ve tried so far.”

Angela winces. “That bad?”

“We could win this war in a week if we could find a way to stop their production. Every unit that falls, another three rise to fill its place. When they need no resources other than power, when they have no agenda but destruction—we must be everywhere to contain a threat that, taken together, we could overwhelm.”

“We have a new recruit who came from the South Korean front—Hana Song, a pilot with their MEKA program. She was deployed to Okinawa when the God program emerged from the sea, and all the omnics in the city were corrupted. I heard from a medical colleague of mine that the death toll was staggering.”

Zarya frowns, and looks directly into the small camera on the computer. In times of war, low-priority channels and communication restrictions were mandated for all army units in order to prevent hacking, and Angela has grown used to this sight, the weary grimace that accompanied both displeasure and exhaustion.

“Indeed. Other soldiers I have talked to recall similar stories. Yet I am here, guarding a frozen ocean, and they are there fighting the fight themselves. It is not right.”

“You are not the average soldier.” Angela reminds her. “Weighlifting champion, your picture all over the billboards? They’re trying to keep you from combat for a reason, and it’s probably a good one.”

“That was years ago. And I’ve served in combat sense, have I not? No, as much as I love my country, I must help it some other way. Overwatch should never have been shut down, but we will make up for that problem in the next few days, ya?”

“Overwatch will not see combat all the time either, Zarya.”

“But at least you are actively doing something to help.” Zarya runs a frustrated hand through her hair. “Talon is as much of a scourge as the omnics. I did not enlist just to serve as some figurehead for the cause. Sports figures making posters to boost morale—bah! A single solid victory would do more than all the posters in the world.”

Angela hums in agreement and sips at her morning tea, savoring the quiet before the day begins. Winston mentioned something about a debriefing once several more agents arrive, and of course, Angela will be the one conducting physicals for all of them.

Winston has promised to hire staff for her, if she could just give him a list of potential candidates. She’s delayed giving him that list for a week now, unwilling to let anyone else look over friends and coworkers. It tugs at her chest in an painful, unreasonable way.

“Well, I suppose I’ll be patching you up, as usual. Reinhardt is already here, so you must stick to your promise.”

Zarya laughs. “Yes, yes, I will wrestle the old man in the training rooms only, and not within three days of a fight. We will keep injuries to skin-level only, but you drive a hard bargain, Angela.”

Case in point: Numbani still has only all-metal furniture thanks to the two of them. Rarely does Angela consider her medical talent wasted, but she makes the exception for blunt force trauma with a _futon_.

“It’s hardly bargaining, to stop you from breaking a limb.” Angela retorts. “We are short on supplies as it is, and I will personally scold you both in front of all the others if you do something as ridiculous as falling off a roof.”

“That happened only once.”

“That should have never happened at all!”

“Humph. You always were the best at keeping us in line, doctor.” Zarya idly strokes at her tattoo, stark black lines running across most of her upper arm and across her shoulder. Already, Angela imagines, she is planning on challenging everyone on base to an arm-wrestling round robin that only two people actually had a chance of winning.

Well, three. But Winston was far to dignified to participate.

“I don’t know, I hear Mei is doing a particularly good job of that, these days.”

It has been years, but still, Zarya’s face still lapses into a soft smile when anyone mentions Mei so openly, to the extent that Angela goes out of her way to bring up her name whenever they speak. They were an unusual pair when they first met, through Overwatch all that time ago, but since have become inseparable even as their duties took them in different directions.

It is nothing short of inspiring. It’s also Angela’s favorite way to catch Zarya off guard. She laughs at the blush that suddenly spreads across her friend’s cheeks.

“You do this on purpose.”

“I certainly try.”

“Well, you should get a second opinion from her yourself. We planned to have lunch together today—she will be coming from the Chinese base in the next hour. Stay until then?”

Angela glances swiftly at the clock. No good- she should already be in the clinic.

“I’m already late for rounds this morning. But send her my love, until I can see you two here.”

They say their goodbyes and Angela signs off. She gives herself her morning shot of nanobotic solution, shrugs on a lab coat, and runs through a quick mental checklist of her day. Alright, breakfast, then a routine recalibration off Satya’s arm, then…oh.

She rolls her eyes and grabs the fire extinguisher. Just in case.

The Australian outback was beautiful once—Jack recalls being stationed there in his youth, and he and Reinhardt share a sympathetic look  whenever Angela complains about the freezing Switzerland winter—but now, even the omnics seem to be deviating from their usual persistence when it comes to reclaiming the area. Blazing hot, beyond radioactive, and with barely any resources, metal or otherwise, that hasn’t already been collected, distributed, and fought endlessly over.

It’s one of the great sins of the war, as far as she’s concerned. There’s no longer any value worth fighting for in an irradiated wasteland.

Not that Jamison Fawkes and his silent companion, Mako, share that opinion.

“Oi, doc! Wot’s the big idea?!” Despite having been forced into a bath the previous night, Jamison has managed to get soot all over her clean sheets. Mako is nowhere to be seen, but one of the walls has a burn mark on it, so it’s safe to say he’ll be back soon.

“It’s your twenty-four hour checkup time.” Angela says cheerfully, slapping his hands away when he starts picking at the IV (again). The window’s shades are programmed automatically to open at her specified time, and with the sun suddenly filling the room, Jamison shudders and presses the pillow over his head.

“It’s barely dawn, is wot it is! I ‘ardly got any shut-eye and now you’re draggin’ me up again! Just wait till Mako gets here, watch your robot try ta open the damn windows when he’s holdin’ em shut!”

Mako, conveniently, shows up just as Jamison is finished howling his protests, and Angela watches as he heaves a deep, rumbling sigh and wedges himself through the door. Two mugs of tea are carefully clutched in one hand, one of which he hands to Angela before turning to his charge in the bed.

“Listen to the doctor or I’m not fetchin’ you any.”

Jamison squirms even more furiously at that, and Angela almost chokes laughing on the hot liquid when he finally realizes that Mako is not, in fact, budging from his post at the door.

“I just need to take a few measurements and a blood sample, it’s nothing that’ll hurt you.” She brings out a rubber tie, some gauze, and a needle. “Please cooperate.”

“Yer not comin’ near me with that thing!” Jamison glances swiftly at his bodyguard, but no help is forthcoming.

Angela waits, patiently, mimicking Mako’s pose in the doorway. Eventually the thrashing stops, and Jamison slumps down against the pillows, crossing bony arms across a even bonier chest.

“Humph. Burned across half me body, and not even getting’ any tea for my heroic rescue last night. And you really ain’t gettin’ that raise now, Hoggy, see how you like bein’ mistreated for once. Bloody ‘ell—bodyguard me arse, you’re more like me jailer-“

“Ahem.” Angela interrupts, pulling her chair close to the bed and taking her charts in hand. Jamison shrinks back ever so little, the motion hidden by the rustling of sheets, and she sees the flash of apprehension in his eyes when she leans forward to take his wrist.

It was Fareeha, of all people, who had spotted Mako first, in the wreckage of Hyde Global from downtown Sydney.  Overwatch wasn’t strictly supposed to be on the scene either, but as with most cases of robot-related explosions, someone was always in charge of recon afterwards. Lo and behold, as Mako flagged her and Jack down to his location and led them down into the debris, where his young employer had been trapped under some rubble, the mask had apparently come off and Jack had recognized him.

Australian Liberation Front. That’s what they had called themselves.

In the classic grievance v. greed formulation, it made some sort of sense; the line between being a semi-legitimate freedom fighter to wanted arsonist and murderer was a hard one to draw, and Angela isn’t one to judge on strict law-following. Most members of Overwatch were hunted (or haunted) by the spectre of what they had done. Morality was never black and white.

But cold-blooded murder, though. And not just against omnics. It makes Angela’s every sense stand on edge, even as the kindly-given cup of tea grows cold on the counter.

She shakes her head to loosen her thoughts. It doesn’t matter in this moment, not since Jamison and Mako became official members of Overwatch, not when the big man behind her shuffles from foot to foot in nervousness. Especially not when the young man sitting before her (who is now anxiously gnawing at his battered robot fingers) shows just about every symptom of a harsh life that she could possibly imagine.

“Stop that. You’ll hurt your teeth”.

“Let go of me hand first.”

Angela quickly hides the needle behind some folds of the sheet. “I can’t do that until I get some blood from you. I’m not going to take much, but it’ll help me do some analysis on how to treat your injuries. Does that make sense?”

“I’m not a baby, course I know what you’re saying.” Jamison snaps, then deflates. “Just…make it quick.”

She takes what she needs and releases him, and as soon as she does he goes back to being huddled in the sheets, this time pulling it up to his chest so his legs are free to the air. He’s not going anywhere- the crude remains of a robot leg were found close to where he’d been trapped, and as far as Angela knows, Winston is already working on a temporary replacement. It had been Mako who had carried him all the way to base and stood guard over him to make sure he didn’t slip out in the night.

It makes her wonder.

_Mako Rutledge was a good man once,_ Jack had told her, when he pulled her aside after an exhausting evening patching Jamison’s many wounds. _I won’t ask you to forgive, just…Overwatch is supposed to be a second chance, and we could use the information they have to fight Talon. I’m choosing to reserve judgment until we know more. I know what they’ve done, but it’s a war, and…_

_I understand._ Angela had reassured him. _They are in my care now._

She’s compromised a lot of what she believed was true for Overwatch. One more wouldn’t hurt.

With her tests still awaiting results, a new shot of nanobiotic fluid administered, and a small dose of painkillers put into the IV, Angela withdraws from the room with a murmured command to stay put for the rest of the day. Jamison is already nodding off before she finishes speaking, but Mako clears his throat as she begins to walk down the hallway to see her next patient.

She turns, and the terrifying pig mask that is perpetually on the man’s face has softened somehow. He doesn’t look nearly as impenetrable as he had seemed the day before, covered in blood and dust and with a similarly disheveled companion in his arms.

“Thanks.” He grunts, and disappears into the room.

The door closes, and Angela watches as the blinds are gently drawn.

* * *

 

It’s only hours later, when she ventures down the shuttle bay to run diagnostics on her Valkyrie suit, that a familiar white-and-green body walks into the room.

“Dr. Ziegler!”

She drops everything and runs into Genji’s hug, fingers slipping and sliding off the sleek metal of his suit (that she designed, that Overwatch had built, years ago) even as he tightens his grip around her shoulders and spins around, laughing.

“Ah, Angela, it’s been too long! You haven’t changed a bit from when we last met. It was—perhaps five years ago? Longer?”

“Too long.” She repeats, smiling as she reaches up to brush the glow of his faceplate. Still holding together, despite everything. “You look well, Genji. Nepal was good to you, then?”

Genji has a way of cocking his head to the side, voice rumbling in amusement, that always makes Angela want to smile along with him.

“I feel like a different man now, thanks to your intervention. If it weren’t for your recommendation that I visit the country all those years ago, I would’ve never made it this far—that makes twice you’ve saved my life now. I even brought along a new recruit.”

“A new agent?”

Angela turns in the direction that Genji is facing and freezes—an omnic in religious robes floats serenely towards them, one hand raised to her.

“Greetings.”

She doesn’t know why, but Angela gets a sudden urge to bow, followed immediately by a wave of slight dread. Oh, Aleks is not going to like this one bit.

Behind him, though, is a more familiar face- Hanzo Shimada looks like he shares her feelings of apprehension, walking carefully behind with his bow case hefted onto his back and eyes looking pointedly away from where the omnic sits.

He smiles when he sees Angela, though. Five years has greyed his hair and sharpened his jaw but otherwise, hasn’t changed him one bit.

Genji looks at the two of them with an obvious pride, even as his metal-covered face betrays no emotion.

“This is Zenyatta, he was one of the monks at the monastery where I spent my time. His knowledge of their healing technologies is second to none. Master, this is Angela Ziegler, the doctor I told you about.”

Angela shakes his hand, and finds him warm to the touch in a way that cannot simply be explained by metal.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Doctor. Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

“It was my pleasure.” She looks at Genji, who has removed his faceplate just enough so that his warm brown eyes shine through, and feels a pang of satisfaction. “Though it seems he owes much of that to you as well.”

Lena enters and notices them, then, and in her sudden excitement over seeing both Hanzo and a member of the Shambali, she and Genji leave her to rattle their ears and step aside to the relative quiet of the hallway. Together, they peek through the door at the happy scene within.

Genji shakes his head and slides his fingers along the wall. “Hard to believe we’re back here again, my friend. Does time move more slowly than I imagine, or does it feel much longer than that?”

Angela smiles ruefully.

“You’re asking the woman who has never felt like there is enough time. I’m bound to give you an unsatisfying answer.” She gazes steadily out towards the hangar, where their few planes are being fueled. Winston is chattering excitedly to Satya as they inspect the systems together, with Jack standing alone to one side. It is becoming easier each day to look out and see Overwatch, instead of a ragtag group of…friends. Truly.

Fareeha stands off to one side, working busily away at something on her Raptora, and she spares Angela and Co. with only a quick glance before grabbing another oiled rag and a lubricant. She makes no move to join them, instead curling around the armpiece of the suit that has her full attention.

Mostly, then.

“To answer your question, it feels like hardly yesterday I accepted Winston’s offer to run this medical team. Everything has changed, but nothing has. Strange feeling.”

“Hah! I can understand that. Back in Nepal, the world was always quiet. And then I would return to my quarters at the end of the day to catch up on the day’s happenings, and the world never seemed to be quiet anywhere else. Just with my master, and the other omnic monks—there was peace.”

“You know…” Angela says, then hesitates. “Winston and Jack must have mentioned that our purpose is to fight Talon. In all their forms, omnic or human.

“Yes, what of it?”

“Some of the new recruits have no love for omnics regardless of their affiliation. Talon is known for meddling with the Omnic Crisis for their own ends, but…several are coming from war fronts, or have been in them in the past. I would be prepared.”

Genji is quiet for a time, and Angela listens to the gentle, tiny whir of his suit as they stand in silence.

“This is not news to me either, Angela.” He sighs, finally. “This war has been terrible—even a monastery in Nepal cannot be completely sheltered from the kind of news that we receive, and my blood boils when I hear of such injustice. But if we cannot extend a forgiving hand to even our allies during this time, then how can we expect to show our humanity to the rest of the world? It is a difficult question.”

“I do not ask you to always turn the other cheek, Genji. Winston and Jack do not expect it of you either.”

“I know. And I suppose Hanzo coming back, as well, is as good of an exemplar as I could have to how to handle the coming weeks and months.” To continue forging forward is more difficult than to be stuck in past offenses. I believe in redemption, Angela. You know this.”

“I do. Does Zenyatta?”

“He does, and he agrees—it may take some time, but I hope they will accept him and I once they begin to understand us. And if they do not, we will adjust.” Genji says. “But I would be remiss if I did not even attempt to come back to help. Even if it means killing omnics and humans, we do what we must. I believe all three of us share that philosophy, Angela.”

“Do we? I thought the end of the old Overwatch was supposed to cure us of such thinking.” She gently teases. Genji laughs and throws an arm over her shoulders, squeezing tight.

“Well, if we are cured, then enough with all this seriousness- who else is here already? Dr. Zhou? Reinhardt?”

“Yes and no.” Angela replies. “Reinhardt is here—you can probably find him in the living quarters or in the workout rooms this time of day. Mei is arriving soon with Aleksandra, and we have many new agents that you haven’t yet met. Overwatch is growing faster than I ever thought.”

“Ah, yes, I will introduce myself to all of them in time. It is good to be back, fighting by your side.”

“You’re the ones doing the fighting.” She laughs. “I just make sure you can keep doing so.”

Genji pats her gently on the back.

“You fight for us, doctor. That is worth much more than you think.”

Zenyatta has managed, after much hand pumping and mutual bowing, has extracted himself from Lena’s enthusiasm, and is floating towards their luggage, and Genji excuses himself to help.

Just then, Jack calls through her earpiece. The transmission is flagged as urgent.

Angela looks up as she answers, touching her fingertips to the shell of her ear, and sees Lena do the same, then Fareeha from where she sits across the hangar bay. Their eyes meet.

“Report to the debriefing room. We have a…situation.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m away from home and a Overwatch-compatible computer, but I wish everyone a happy holiday with your loved ones. Thanks all for reading, I’m grateful for all of you. And for Tracer :)


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